


The Significance of a Chair

by Vexie



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Episode 48 Spoilers, Gen, Scene Expansion, the basement scene, torture mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 18:02:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexie/pseuds/Vexie
Summary: Anyone can toss the contents of a room around. Bandits, monsters, common burglars. It is not that which stops Caleb dead, turning his knees to water.It is the chair placed in the center of the room.There is nothing special about the chair.It is just a chair, pristine and orderly in the otherwise chaotic room./scene expansion of the basement scene from episode 48, from Caleb's perspective/





	The Significance of a Chair

**Author's Note:**

> *minor clarity/formatting/grammar edit 01/23/2019...I really need to stop getting overexcited to post...*

“Jester, open the door. _Caleb_. Open it.” Nott’s voice is shaking, but firmer than Caleb has ever heard before.

                Jester runs forward. Caleb stands silent, frozen.

                _That door should not be standing like that_ , he thinks.

                Caleb does not want to open the door. But he can’t tell her that. The words are stuck in his chest. Jester tries to slam the door, but it doesn’t open. Nott’s eyes narrow as she turns to Caleb, an unasked question that almost feels like an accusation. 

                “I can’t…” Caleb whispers with a small shake of his head.

                But Jester breaks the magic holding the lock and the door opens. Nott rushes forward. They all follow. 

_Thump thump thump  
_

              Caleb isn’t sure what’s louder—their footfalls on the stairs or the ever-harder hammering of his heart against his ribcage. His heart has been racing since he recognized the archmages. Every footstep says _Not here, not_ now. His ears are ringing with alarms only he can hear. It’s making it hard for him to listen to his friends.  _Run, you don’t want to be here. Run away. Anywhere but here._ But he can’t. The illusion doesn’t allow the rosy tint to drain from Nott’s wrinkly gnome cheeks, but he knows the pallor of her normally green skin just by the terrible look on her face.

              This is for her. He will follow her...gods know she has followed him wherever he has asked (willingly or no). Even to the bottom of the ocean. He owes her this. 

              The room opens up into more chaos. What appears to have been a small private laboratory is tousled and ruined, broken equipment casting eerie shadows on the wall under Caduceus’s light. That is not what stops Caleb in his tracks, turning his knees to water.

               Anyone can toss the contents of a room around. Bandits, monsters, common burglars. It is not that.

                It is the chair placed in the center of the room.  

                It stops all of them, a brief discussion breaking out in hushed voices among the party.

                There is nothing special about the chair.

                It is just a chair, pristine and orderly in the otherwise chaotic room.

              Caleb shrinks away from the chair, reaching for the wall behind him. _No._ No, no, no. He hears footsteps that aren’t any of theirs on a cold marble tiled floor that isn’t this flagstone floor. The legs of the chair echo as they hit the floor at the same time. The sound drops like a stone into the pit of his stomach. He waits, holding his breath with dread, knowing what is coming. Jester steps forward and sits on the chair. It’s all Caleb can do not to cry out, to tell her to stop.

             “ _Sit._ ”  _The command is laced with irresistible power. Sometimes it’s for Caleb, sometimes he watches one of the others stiffen, walk to the chair, and sit against their will. They do not know which of them will be chosen prior to the command taking effect. None of them are granted time to prepare for what happens next, meaning all of them must be ready._

_In the beginning, they tried to fight it. They were expected to._

_They stop trying very quickly. (They find it doesn’t take people long to learn that resisting is worse. A lesson well learned.)_

_“Begin.” This command is not backed with magic, but it’s an irresistible command nonetheless. If they do not perform, Trent will. He watches with a scrutinizing eye. If they hold back, if they weaken, he will step in to demonstrate. And he is not merciful._

_It’s important practice, after all—to learn how to perform and how to withstand. If they can’t do it here, how will they survive what’s to come? How will they be able to do what is needful? Little by little, they become indifferent to each other’s screams as they practice their art. Later, in the quiet hours of the night, they comfort each other and compare notes, critiquing their performances with a scholarly eye, even as the welts and burns fade. The day’s victim is the harshest critic of all as they learn to sit straight in the face of everything. They find the victim’s notes to be invaluable. Learning what will break you is the greatest asset to breaking others._

_There is no hate between them for this. You do what you have to in order to survive and grow stronger. No looking back. They tend each other’s wounds and strengthen one another. They grow stronger together._

_Soon, they graduate from the chair. Strangers’ frightened faces replace their own. Those found guilty of crimes against the crown. Revolutionaries and spies sit as the three of them go to work as they’ve been taught, immune to the pleas and screams coming from these strangers. This is easier. Twisted fear distorts a stranger into something not real—an incorporeal dream figure. After learning to ignore the pain of your own companions, this is nothing. This is easier._

_Caleb and his companions get what they’ve come for every time; they never fail in this. They’ve been trained not to._

_They leave the chair behind._

              Caleb’s eyes do not leave the chair for several minutes, even after Jester gets up with a shrug, watching it as if it might jump at him. He knows this chair, though he has never seen it before in his life.

               Finally, he forces himself to look away. This is not helpful, Widogast. Focus on what matters now. Focus on Nott. He’s here for Nott. He’s here for his friend now.

               He finds her anxiously searching through the upheaval for—for what? Clues to this missing chemist? Her friend? Her…something more?

              She kneels and starts picking the lock of the iron chest--the only other pristine thing in the room. Caleb takes a breath to warn her that the lock is arcane, but her small, deft fingers break through the spell effortlessly. Nott throws the box open, waving aside the toxins as if they’re a minor nuisance. The face isn’t hers, but the determination he sees there somehow is. And yet she is so different. He’s never seen her like this—so frightened yet so focused.  It is like those times when she has protected him, but magnified tenfold. Grief threatens her every movement; he can see her pushing it away, rejecting it when it gets too close. He sees the determination behind her eyes, just like in those dark days when they searched for Jester, Fjord, and Yasha.

 _It's because I love them_.

             He watches her with two different sets of eyes. Part of him is still the man (the boy? After all, they were so young...) on the other side of that chair. Is this what it was like in those days, after they were done? Who came home after Caleb left? Who came to find their things tossed about or taken or completely destroyed? Who came home wondering where their loved one had been taken, or who had left them for dead? How many people came home to find  _this_  created by his hands? He never had considered that someone might be left behind after their mission completed. It was just an assignment. The people were bad people, rebels against the crown. None of it mattered.

             Caleb prods his fragile memories, trying to recall the faces of the people they “paid visits” like this to, but he’s shocked to find he can’t. He didn’t care enough. They weren’t people; they were rebels. They were faceless—that is how he was trained to see them. Did they have families? Friends? Someone to mourn them? Someone to dig through the rubble Caleb left behind, looking for clues?

 _Focus, Widogast_ , he tells himself again.

            There are objects in the case—Nott pulls out a strange tripod device. She and Jester unfold it curiously.

            “Is it…the dodecahedron? Would it fit?” Jester asks. “Should we try?”

            “No!” It’s not just Caleb protesting, the others' voices hiding the fear spiking his own voice.      

             “Not here,” Caleb adds, glancing around nervously. The chair and the case are the only two pristine things in the room. If Nott could break the spell on the lock with her lockpicking alone, the archmages wouldn’t have had any problem getting into that case. Either the thing inside is not important, or their work is not done and they will be back.  

             “Let’s get out of here—take that thing—have you seen it before?” he asks Nott. If it’s important, they can take it and go, but he wants to go. _Now_.

             “No, I’ve never seen any of this before,” she says. Her eyes are wide, overwhelmed.

             “Is there anything else in there?” Caduceus asks.

              “I…” Nott looks down. She rummages through the case and pulls out a strange vial. She tosses it to Caleb, barely glancing at it. He catches it and looks down at it, frowning. The substance inside is neither liquid nor solid nor gas. It's...strange. What is this? Caleb doesn't like it. They left a case with a strange device and a vial of… _stuff_. This can't just be trivial leavings. They are likely about to be in very deep trouble if they don't leave. 

                Nott pulls out some ragged notes from among less-usable shreds. She hands one page to Jester and begins quickly reading the other out loud. It’s all to do with the dodecahedron, the Beacon as they’re calling it. And dunamacy—the power to control time and entropy…all of this is tied up in the very thing he’s been looking for. Caleb's head spins with this new information. Jester jumps in, reading aloud from her page, explaining in more detail how Yeza has been involved.

                 But then Caleb hears it. _Trent finding a few of his proteges-_ and Caleb’s heart stops. He looks up with wide eyes to find Nott staring at him, both hands knotted into her hair. He holds out a hand for the pages. They’re passed to him. He tries to read and commit the information to memory—it’s all very important—but his eyes don’t leave the name  _Trent_. Here. He’s here. Even if he isn’t  _here_ , he is still here. This is Trent’s fault. His doing. His command. The others are discussing their findings but Caleb can’t hear them anymore.

               _“Sit.”_ The cold command whispers in Caleb’s ears. Those eyes watching, burning, judging. Thin hands folded on a crossed knee, observing.

               _“Begin_.”

               _“You know what you must do.”_

               _“Disappointing. Lock him away for now. I will find some use for him, perhaps.”_

              Caleb can feel Trent staring at him, patiently waiting, fingers tapping on his knee. Caleb’s walking right back to him. He’s been running for so long—he’s not  _ready_  yet. Not now. If he faces Trent, he will die…and he will die  _last_ , and not for a long while. Not if he is with the Nein. Treachery is not taken lightly. He will be punished for all he’s done. Flames flicker in Caleb’s mind. How did this happen? He has been so careful and kept far away from Rexentrum. How did they end up in the palm of Trent’s hand? They did not come here for this, they come for Nott’s friend. For Nott. How could Trent be so close to Nott, the one person…

                “How does-how does your friend fit into all of this?” he stammers, looking up at her.  

                She’s shaking her head, hands still in her hair.

              “I don’t know…he’s an excellent alchemist. They would probably need someone like that to—but… the Xhorhasians weren’t doing this. Someone else was.” Nott pauses, lowering her hands in realization.

              “Your people,” she says, her eyes meeting his unflinchingly as he looks up at her. Ice drops down his spine. Even in her disguised form, her eyes are shocked, full of horror. Caleb’s lips part with an unasked question. He shakes his head, uncomprehending even as the meaning creeps up on him. A meaning he doesn't want to hear. His ears are ringing. Sweat gathers in his palms.  _No_.

              “Your people…” Beau repeats softly, looking from Nott to Caleb.

               _My people_. The words echo in Caleb’s head. He did this. The legs of the chair hit the floor over and over again.  _Begin_.

              “Your people were doing experiments and trying to…to find out and harness the power of…” Nott’s shaking her head in disbelief.

              She’s not the only one staring at him now. Everyone—gods, the whole of the Mighty Nein are staring between Nott and Caleb in varying degrees of confusion. No! They can’t find out. Not now, of all times. Not like this, where it’s all so sharp and  _real_. Not in this room. Not here, with them so close, with the chair right there. Panic grips Caleb. He shakes his head, motioning for her to stop, a strangled sound making its way from his throat. Nott raises her head, furious anger and disgust twisting her gnomish features in an almost  _goblin-like_  way.

              “What? It’s  _your people_ ,” she says, voice raising. “The people you know and trained with.  _Your people_.”

               _My people_.  _I did this_. Caleb folds in on himself, closing his eyes tight as he drops his head into his hands. He can’t do this—Trent is  _here._ That’s enough on it’s own.And Jester is looking at him, her eyes wide and full of sadness for Nott, though a question is there on her face—he can’t stand to see her disappointment when she understands. Fjord is frowning—the dots will connect any moment now. Yasha watches silently, her eyes traveling uncertainly between Nott and Caleb. He can’t even look at Caduceus—the firbolg’s eyes will tear right through him in his exposed state. He can’t do this here, now.

              Dimly, he’s aware of Beauregard speaking—Beauregard who he just stormed away from only a few days ago—Beauregard who stubbornly told him she’d fight for him and screamed compliments after him–the only other person who knows his secret. There’s an unsure plea to her voice.

              “It’s because he hasn’t like…they haven’t….in terms of…” she’s trying to explain. Caleb feels her hand on his shoulder, protective. He tries to flinch away, but can’t.

              “Well  _fuck_   _him!_ ” Nott shouts, the words echoing in the stone room.

              There’s a shattering sound like a thousand panes of glass. Caleb’s eyes fly open. He stares at Nott. She’s glaring at Beau, bitterness and hatred in every line of her face. Hatred for…for him? Caleb can’t breathe. His chest constricts. His stomach twists horribly. Beau’s hand tightens on his shoulder, but he barely feels it.

              Fuck him.

              A door nowhere near here slams shut and Caleb is alone in the corner of a cold, damp cell again. This time, there is no Nott coming to join him and help him break free. She is the one who slammed this door. She will not come for him again.

              Nott, who is always behind him. Nott, who is always on his side. Nott, who he has trusted and loved, who would run with him when the time came. Nott, his friend.

              And that’s gone now.

              Caleb stares, his teeth chattering. It’s  _cold_  suddenly; why is it so cold? Nott turns her eyes to him, but they’re unfamiliar, a stranger’s eyes. It has nothing to do with her disguise.

              “It’s your people that have done this to  _my people_ ,” she says, enunciating each word carefully as she does when she’s angry. Each one is like one of her crossbow bolts, piercing him through. “And we have to find them both.”

               _Your people and my people_ , she said, drawing a line between them. For who he is. For what he did. She’s not claiming him anymore. In his memory (or was it a dream? It doesn’t feel real anymore.) Nott approaches him, wrapping her small arms around him the best she can. It’s just after he’s told her and Beau the truth of who he is.

               _Nott’s eyes are tear-filled—though they might just appear that way because his are. He waits for her to reject him, to run like she should. Like everyone should. But she doesn’t._

               _“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t you. It’s not your fault,” she says gently, stroking his hair. “It wasn’t you, you were made to do it. It’s not your fault. I know you don’t realize that now, but you will. This pain that you have that you wear all over you like a mask, it’s just that and you can take it off someday. I know it hurts but it wasn’t your fault. And I’m just gonna keep telling you that until you believe me…What you did was awful, truly terrible, despicable and unforgivable. Until you can forgive it. At some point, you’ll have to do that. And I swear to you that I will be at your side until you do.”_

               _As much as he can’t let himself relax into that fantasy, he believes her. Just a little bit. And something inside of him loosens, just a little. He dares to let himself be loved, just for a moment. Just by her._

 _You promised_ , he doesn’t say now. The words stop in his chest, weighing him down. Even if he felt he could get them out, he won’t say it. What right does he have to call upon that promise? There was no way she could have understood what he was then. It was just a story he had told about the awful things he had done. It’s easy to say comforting things about something you haven’t experienced. Here is the reality. This is who he is. This is the _thing_ he’ll always be. Of course, now that she truly understands, she’s gone. Of course. He should have known better. It was foolish of him to ever think anyone would think otherwise when they truly understood. He is a monster and he will be alone. This is something he already knew. 

               He just didn’t expect it to hurt like this. 

              Caleb’s legs stop holding him up. He sinks down onto his knees, out of Beau’s grasp, shuddering violently. Beau is distracted enough not to notice.

               _You did this. This is your fault._ The flames burn higher and higher. Anonymous screams join the usual two in the flame. And that cold voice.

               _Begin_.

              A voice he will hear again very soon.

              Even though he’s freezing cold, the stone feels cool against his palms as he braces himself, everything he’s eaten in the past day violently splattering across the stone floor. The hard knot in his stomach doesn’t loosen but his muscles do, his arms collapsing under him.

              A shadow looms over Caleb.

                “Come on.” The voice isn’t unkind.

              Two strong, fuzzy arms scoop him up. He doesn’t have the energy to protest as Caduceus cradles him like a small child. The tall firbolg smells warm and faintly floral, like tea in some secret garden. Caleb’s eyes close against his will, his breathing slowing in time with Caduceus’s own deep, calm breaths, shudders slowing to random tremors. He’s suddenly so tired…he feels like he’s a boy again, sick with a fever.

              “You’re not at fault here,” Caduceus says quietly. Caleb can feel the words rumble in the firbolg’s chest against his face. “You’re the solution here. You know that right? We’re here to fix this. Don’t let her anger…it’s not about you. This is not about you.”

              Caleb’s throat tightens. He wants to tell Caduceus that he’s wrong. That he is responsible. That Caduceus and the others should run. They will know soon enough. When they realize who he is and what he has done, they will leave him behind. And they should.

               _It’s your people that’s done this to my people._

               Caleb’s consciousness flutters in and out as the party discusses what they should do next.

                “Why the chair? Why in the middle of the room? Why lock the chest?” Fjord muses.

                Caleb shudders in Caduceus’s arms.

                “We should…we need to go now,” Caduceus says. He moves toward the exit. Caleb gets one more glance of the chair and feels one last white flash of fear.

                 But it’s just a chair.

                “Let me down,” Caleb murmurs once they’re outside.

              “I don’t think I should,” Caduceus says. “I don’t think you’d get very far in your condition. Just stay with me for a little bit, all right?”

              Caduceus steps up onto the front of the cart easily. He sets Caleb down next to him gently.

              “This is just grief. You see that, don’t you? Believe me, I see a lot of grief in my line of work,” he says quietly, directing the horses to follow the rest of the party, Nott at the lead. Caleb watches her.

              “She’s right,” he says. “My people. My fault.”

              Caduceus glances at him, frowning.

              “Somehow I get the vibe that they haven’t been your people for a very long time. And this…this is not your fault,” he says. “Even if somehow it is…what matters is what you do tomorrow. So, Mr. Caleb, what are you going to do?”  

              Caleb runs both hands through his hair. In his mind’s eye, he walks away from the chair, supported by his friends.

_“We do what we have to,” Astrid says gently, putting down the pestle and spreading salve on Caleb’s shoulder. The sting of the welts cools, though it does nothing for the ache of his muscles._

_“We patch each other up and face the day,” he agrees._

_“No looking back,” Eodwulf says from the floor._

_“No looking back,” Caleb and Astrid say in unison, nodding._

                “Edith, it’s me. Where is my son?” Nott’s voice cuts through the memories.

                Caleb’s heart freezes. He looks up slowly as a small boy peers around the old woman standing in the doorway. Nott, now in the guise of a halfling, opens her arms, relief and longing replacing all the fear on her face for just a moment. Did he know this? 

          “No looking back,” Caleb whispers. “I will do what needs doing.”

              For them…for her. He will do what he has to do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> This was just a short, self indulgent piece I wrote on Tumblr as a feels dump for what Matt, Sam, and Liam did to me on Thursday, but cleaned it up and cross-posted here after rewatching on Monday. I fixed it up and added in some of the details I'd missed because I was too busy y'know. Panicking for my favorite little found family pair. 
> 
> The whole thing came from that pause when Liam asked if Caleb recognized the chair from his years of torture and awfulness and Matt said "Yes...it's a chair." 
> 
> Is it Thursday yet?


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